Though time hath not much ravaged you,
its stealth hath left its haloed shine
'bout thy wearied shoulders,
so oft mistook in harried youth
as consequent of age
Silent as a milkmaid's daughter,
destined as a lamb to public slaughter,
etched in records seldom seen
'cept by some errant mage-
a memory of life in alabaster
a treasury for thine
in the measured hereafter,
a learned patina, earned
to compliment the sage